


Crescit Eundo

by visiblemarket



Series: We'll Always Have New Mexico [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Carsex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with some plot, i guess, some discussion of precious bb queer phil coulson, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton finally gets his vacation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crescit Eundo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coldwarjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldwarjunkie/gifts).



> Sequel(ish) to [Land of Enchantment](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1048069/chapters/2096164), inspired by [this gif](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/88470171966/flux-capacitard-screams-phlint-phlint), because damn.
> 
> (Dedicated to Coldwarjunkie because [I promised I would that one time](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/7722724).)

Clint sleeps like the dead on the flight back to New York, and Phil smiles to himself, presses his cheek to the top of Clint's head, and swears to god he'll make sure they both get an actual vacation, one of these days.

*

"Hey," Clint says, over the deli sandwiches and cans of soda he'd brought; it's four p.m., a little late for lunch, but Phil's not going to turn down an extra half hour with him. He's perched, seemingly precariously, on the right-hand corner of Phil's desk, and Phil has to keep reminding himself to eat and not just stare at him. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Clint looks down at his sandwich for a second, glances over at Phil, then away. "How am I doing, here?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean…" Clint shrugs, takes a sip of his drink, then finally turns toward Phil. "Here," he waves a hand through the air between them. "You and me. How are we…how am I doin'?"

"Clint," he says, soft and careful, and Clint shakes his head.

"No, seriously. Think about it. You know I'm not—I haven't done much of this. Not like this, not this…" Clint gives a self-conscious little chuckle, and shrugs. "You gotta let me know, okay? If I suck at this, you gotta be okay with telling me."

He thinks about it, because Clint's asked him to: they've been close for years, and he's used to having Clint in his space, has always enjoyed it. Now that they've finally made the leap to a relationship, such as it is, Phil appreciates it all the more: neither of them are great romantics, but Clint is sweet and attentive and when their schedules manage to overlap, Phil couldn't be happier with how things are going. "You're doing fine," he says, and Clint smiles to himself. Phil bumps his knee against Clint's ankle. "How about me?"

"You're perfect," Clint says, very quickly, and then rolls his eyes at himself and looks away. He chuckles a little, rubs his hand across the back of his neck. "I mean. You're good. No complaints."

Phil stands up; Clint looks up at him, his blue eyes soft and cautious, and leans into Phil's touch when he slides his hand around the back of Clint's neck. "None?"

Clint relaxes, and smirks at him. "Well, we could be having more sex in your office, I guess."

They have had precisely no sex in his office. Although there was, of course, that one time…Clint seems to be thinking of it as well, and wiggles his eyebrows. Phil laughs, and kisses him. Clint makes a small, happy noise as he kisses back, grabbing at Phil's jacket to draw him in, and what was meant to be a quick, reassuring peck melts into something wetter and much more involved, with Clint sliding his leg in between Phil's thighs and sucking on his tongue. 

Phil's phone rings. Clint sighs, drops his forehead to Phil's shoulder, and takes a deep breath before giving him a gentle push. Phil mouths a quick apology as he reaches for the receiver.

*

"Barton," he says, and Clint's attention flickers toward him, though he works through the last few arrows in his quiver before he turns around.

"Sir."

"Are you busy?"

Clint's lips twitch for a second, then settle. He doesn't smile, but he winks. "For you, sir? Never." Phil nods toward the door, and Clint gives up and grins: "Give me a sec', okay?"

"Okay," Phil says, stepping outside of the range to lean against the institutional light-grey walls and wait. 

Clint's out within five minutes, practically bouncing on his heels, and still smiling. He comes to join Phil against the wall, bumping their shoulders together as he does. He glances over at him, eyes bright and playful. "So what's up, boss?"

"I hear your leave time's been rescheduled."

"Oh yeah?" Clint's tone is suddenly very mild. "To when?"

"Next week?"

"You askin' me or telling me?"

Phil shrugs, utterly casual. "I'm taking next week."

"Oh, are you?" Clint's lips purse like he's holding back a laugh. "You ever taken a vacation before, Agent Coulson?"

"Once or twice," Phil says, though the answer is: _once, and it went worse than New Mexico._

Clint looks away, grinning. "Uh-huh. So, you got any plans?"

"I don't know," Phil says, and Clint looks back at him with hooded eyes, pressing his shoulders into the wall behind him. His hips rise a little as he does (intentionally, Phil has no doubt), and he licks his lips. Phil looks away. "Any suggestions?"

Clint takes a moment to think about it, then shrugs. "Nah. Just…no more fucking deserts, okay?" 

Phil turns his head; Clint is looking at him and smiling now, a slightly nervous, entirely adorable smile. "Okay," Phil says, and smiles back. "I can do that."

*

To “more fucking deserts”, Phil adds “torrential rain” and “ancient Norse gods” to the list of things to avoid for the next week. Other than that, he's a bit at a loss. It's fall, and Phil knows better than to expect the whole week; they'll inevitably be called in to deal with some other disaster before it's up. Better to stick with something within range, something they can get to within hours and enjoy for just a few days.

In the end, he decides on a cabin. It's in the Catskills and the leaves are turning and they'll be alone, blissfully alone, for at least two days, optimistically three. There may or may not be a nearby field with room for a Quinjet to land, and the cabin itself is an old safehouse that's rarely used anymore; apparently too many agents had been using it for quiet weekend getaways, so it's got that to recommend it. 

"Hey." Phil looks up; Clint's leaning against the doorframe, with his elbow over his head and his shirt riding up over his stomach.

"Hi," he says.

"You busy?"

"For you, Agent Barton?" he says, just slightly teasing, and Clint rolls his eyes even as he pushes away from the door. "Never."

"It's seven o'clock." And so it is, Phil realizes, glancing at his computer screen. He starts to stand, but Clint shakes his head. "I was just going to make a dinner run. You want something?"

Phil thinks about it, and stands up anyway. "I want to come with you."

Clint smiles, surprised into it, but makes no effort to hide it. "You sure?"

Phil shrugs. "We can go home, even."

"Home? At seven o'clock?" Clint grins. "Yeah, okay." He grabs Phil's jacket from where it's hanging behind the door, and holds it up. Phil walks over, and stands still as Clint helps him into it, one arm at a time, pausing when he's done to run his hands up Phil's sides, ostensibly smoothing down the fabric. He presses a kiss to the back of Phil's neck and then guides him around. His hands stay, light but warm, on Phil's hips. "You sure you don't need to stick around?"

He takes Clint's face in his hands, and gives him a quick kiss. "I'm sure."

(He shouldn't have been: they're about five minutes away from Phil's apartment when his phone rings, and Clint just sighs, swears under his breath, and turns the car around.)

*

They have about a ten-minute lunch together the next day.

Clint's knees bump against his under the table; Phil ducks his head and grins. Clint chugs down his can of soda, then reaches over and grabs Phil's as well. He takes a sip as Phil gives him a steady, un-amused look; Clint laughs and makes as if to hand it back, but keeps it aloft and makes Phil reach out and take it. Their fingers brush, which Phil has no doubt was the point all along. Clint's fingers are cool and they linger, but he barely gets a chance to smile back at Clint before he spots Agent Patel's striding through the dining room with the look of someone desperate for a cooler head than the one she's going over. Clint gets one look at his face, chuckles, and shakes his head. _Go_ , he mouths, and Phil gives a quick nod before getting up. He makes sure to brush his hand against Clint's shoulder as he goes.

*

"So what am I packing for, here?"

"Hello, Agent Barton," he says, and holds a finger up; Nick rolls his eyes but gets the picture, and nods as Phil gets up and steps outside. 

"Seriously, Phil. Hot? Cold? Gimme a range."

"Just your…just your regular clothes, Barton. 40 to 60 degrees."

"That's Fahrenheit, right?"

"Yes, Barton." Phil sighs; there's a long moment of silence before Clint speaks again.

"You weren't busy, right?"

"For you, Barton?" Nick is giving him Impatient Eye, which is just one step down from Get It The Fuck Together Eye. 

Clint gives an apologetic chuckle. "Never?" 

Phil sighs. "Never."

*

Friday comes. They deal with it, separately and together.

Mostly separately, but he stumbles home long after dark, sheds his clothes, and collapses into his very warm, very soft, bed and drags Clint's body against his. Clint barely even stirs in his sleep, but he smells like Phil's soap and Phil takes few deep breaths and presses a kiss to the back of his neck before he falls asleep.

*

Saturday is a glorious day.

Bright, warm for fall but with a crisp breeze whispering through the air. 

Clint rolls over toward him and puckers his lips for a kiss before he even opens his eyes. Phil obliges, and Clint gives a satisfied hum, opening his mouth. Phil kisses back for a while, then ducks his head. "Clint," he whispers, and Clint groans a little, shifting till their hips are pressed together.

"C'mon, Phil. We're on _vacation_ …"

"We're on a schedule." Clint groans again, laughing as he does, and tucks his head against Phil's chest. Phil runs a hand through his hair. "We want to beat traffic, right?" 

Clint sighs. "Fine."

*

Clint stops short when he sees it. He doesn't drop his duffle bag, but it's a close thing, and he half turns to stare at Phil. Phil smiles at his open mouth and his wide eyes.

"Go ahead," he says, and Clint lets out a laughing breath, drops his bag after all, and walks over to the car. Circles it carefully, running his hand over the shiny red hood. Phil picks up the bag and walks over, grinning a Clint's reaction: he's leaning over the driver's side door now, checking out the black leather upholstery. Phil can't help but check out his ass, which is perfect to begin with but especially so in the faded blue jeans he’s wearing; Clint turns his head and winks over his shoulder, before turning back around, running his fingers down a seam.

"Damn, Phil," he says, straightening up. "Didn't know they'd finished her yet."

"They haven't," Phil says. 

"No?"

"Still figuring out the propulsion. But she's road worthy, at least. Pop the trunk for me?" 

Clint smirks and leans over again, and Phil gets another good look before his view is blocked by the trunk's lid. He stores the bags as quickly as he can. When Clint comes back into view, he's braced his forearms on the edge of the door, swung his ass out almost ridiculously, and is giving him his least subtle _come and get it_ look through half-hooded eyes. His shirt has crept up, revealing a tanned, toned sliver of his stomach, and his biceps are straining against the sleeves. 

"Do you..." Phil swallows. "Do you want to drive?"

"Do you want to fuck me over the hood?" Phil doesn't bother answering. He might as well have, from the way Clint grins. "Hold that thought, sir," he says, pushing off the door and walking over. He's in Phil's space within seconds, smelling of toothpaste and Phil's shampoo. "We're on a schedule, right?" he breathes, fingers playing with the collar of Phil's polo shirt. 

"We _are_ on a schedule, Barton," he says, easing his hands around Clint's waist anyway. Clint smirks and wraps his arms around Phil's neck. "We're also in public."

Clint leans into him, nudging their hips together. "You wouldn't be into that at all, huh?" 

"Nope," Phil says, and Clint laughs, presses a quick kiss to his mouth. 

"C'mon then, Coulson. Let's get the lead out."

Traffic on the highway is surprisingly light, and the car's engine practically purrs as they speed along at a steady clip. 

They drive for about three hours: the sun's bright, the wind rustles through Clint's hair and Phil can't resist the temptation to reach over and run his fingers through it. Clint grins, shuts his eyes as he throws his head back, and drops his hand to Phil's thigh, giving it a quick squeeze.

*

The safehouse is as advertised, a tidy wooden house that hits a happy medium between rustic hunting cabin and fairytale cottage. The large, secluded field about a mile down the road is just as nice, almost silent except for the wind in the trees.

The leaves rustle above them, and Clint's head is warm on his thigh. His legs are swung over the passenger's seat door, and one of his hands is running along the steering wheel. The other is folded over his chest. His lips are curved into a slight, peaceful smile, his eyes are shut, and his breathing is steady and low, like he's sleeping

"This is nice," Phil says, carefully, and Clint's smile broadens a little. He nudges the back of his head against Phil's leg.

"Uh-huh." 

"I mean it."

"So do I." Clint's eyes flicker open. "Keep expecting your phone to ring, though."

_It won't_ , Phil wants to say, but know better than to jinx it. He reaches down instead, threads his fingers through Clint's hair, and Clint chuckles a little and shuts his eyes again. 

"You do this often?" he says, soft but slightly teasing.

Phil's willing to play along. He usually is, with Clint. "Do what often?"

"This," Clint opens his eyes again, gives an expansive sort of wave. "Takin' boys to make-out point in your daddy's fancy car."

Phil holds back a smile. 

"No," he says. "You're special."

Clint laughs and reaches up, grabs Phil's other hand; twines their fingers together. "Bet you say that to all your dates."

"I don't get a lot of dates, actually."

"Oh yeah?" Clint runs his thumb over Phil's knuckles. "Were you perhaps a bit of a nerd, Phillip J. Coulson?"

"Not exactly." Clint raises his eyebrows, and Phil laughs. "I was more of a troublemaking punk."

"For real? Phil Coulson, bad boy?"

"I wouldn't go that far."

Clint giggles. It's a strange, delighted sound, and Phil wants to lean over to kiss him, but doesn't have the space: the steering wheel doesn't allow for that much movement. "I don't know, Coulson. Can't really imagine you bein' a bad boy and _not_ havin' most of the girls and some of the boys throwing themselves at you."

Phil shrugs. It wasn't that he hadn't gotten that kind of attention; he just hadn't been ready to deal with it. "Shockingly enough, Barton, I've never been really good at dealing with my feelings."

"Well, that I can picture," Clint says, and settles back. Stretches his neck a little; Phil watches his pulse jump in his throat. "Poor little Phil Coulson. Fallin' for his best friend, dating the student council president. Blowin' football players under the bleachers."

"I don't even want to know where you're getting your ideas of what high school was like, Barton." Clint grins, and throws him an expectant look. Phil sighs, and goes back to stroking his hair. "It wasn't like that, at least. No bleachers. No best friends."

"No best friends?"

"We moved a lot," he says, which isn't untrue. "I picked a lot of fights. It didn't do wonders for my popularity." 

"Yeah, bet the douchebag bullies didn't love you kickin' their asses."

Phil shrugs again. "I wasn't the friendliest kid. There were a few people who…got close." He glances down; Clint looks honestly fascinated by him, intrigued by whatever he might say. "But I never wanted to get attached." For all the good it'd done: he'd never been able to stop himself, not when he was a teenager, not when he was pushing middle age and so in love with a subordinate that it compromised his better judgment. 

"How about now?" Clint's closed his eyes again, but his fingers are still curled tight around Phil's. 

"Hmm?"

"You wanna get attached now?" Clint voice has that slightly teasing tone of before, like he might be trying to play it off as innuendo. 

"I'm already attached," he says, with honesty he wouldn't have been able to manage if Clint's eyes weren't closed, and if his own weren't focused on the trees in front of them. 

Clint squeezes his hand. "Me too." He looks back down: Clint meets his eyes. "I woulda liked you. Back then."

"I would've liked you too." 

"Yeah?" Clint's smiling a little, and bites at his lower lip. "How much?"

"A lot." It's true; he would've been smitten, entranced by Clint's cocky grins and sad eyes. "I would've asked you out, I think."

"Yeah? To make-out point?"

Phil laughs. "On a drive, probably. Maybe we'd end up here. Just by chance."

"Uh-huh." Clint gives his hand a squeeze, and then lets go; trails his fingers up Phil's chest. "And then what?" 

"I'd kiss you."

"Ooh," Clint teases, and sits up a little. It's not comfortable, there's very little room, but he grabs Phil's shirt and hauls him down just enough to press their mouths together; he gets a swipe of tongue between Phil's lips before flopping down into his lap again. "Then what?"

"Second base?" 

Clint flutters his eyelashes. It should look ridiculous; it doesn't. "What's that?" he says, the innocence of his expression belied by his breathy, low voice. 

Phil smirks as he slides his hand under Clint's t-shirt, up along his chest. Clint's skin is warm and smooth, dotted with familiar scars; Clint's satisfied hum vibrates against Phil's palm, and Phil smiles, brushes his fingers over Clint's nipples. Clint groans and turns his head, presses his forehead to Phil's stomach. "Yeah?" he says, not even sure what he's asking, but Clint nods, and shifts, nuzzling against him. He keeps stroking at Clint's skin, tracing the solid lines of his muscles, the occasional jagged edge of a scar. Clint shuts his eyes and rubs his cheek against Phil's cock, which twitches at the attention. 

He pinches one of Clint's nipples and Clint chokes out a laugh, grabbing blindly for Phil's other hand. He catches it, pulls it toward his mouth; swirls his tongue over Phil's thumb and then wraps his lips around it, gives a filthy, wet suck. 

"Clint," he whispers, and Clint grins.

"Third?" 

Phil snorts, and slides his hand down again, reaches for Clint's fly. He's breathing heavily, panting against Phil's dick, and Phil's not immune: his fingers stumble on the buttons and zipper of Clint's jeans, but just for a second. Clint groans at the contact, his cock plumping in Phil's grasp. He gets him off slow, dragging his fingers along the shaft, keeping his grip light. Clint squirms and bucks up into his hand, presses his forehead against Phil's stomach. "C'mon, Phil, _please_ , just—" Clint groans, tenses, and Phil slows his rhythm to a stop. Clint squirms, gives a breathless, whining grumble. "Fuck you, sir."

"Love you too, Barton," he says, but takes pity on him: pushes Clint's shirt up a little, slides his hand down Clint's perfect abs, and wraps his hand back around Clint's dick. He gives it a few more slow, steady strokes, watches Clint's chest heave and stomach twitch with impatient arousal till he comes, quietly, arching his neck over Phil's thighs. Phil doesn't hesitate for a second, drags his fingers through the stripes of come across Clint's belly and brings them to his mouth. He runs his other hand through Clint's hair, fervent but careful. 

"Perv," Clint says, fondly, and gives a smug, exhausted smile as he leans into Phil's touch. 

"Yeah, yeah," Phil says, and Clint grins, slides his legs off the edge of the car door and braces his feet on the passenger's seat, giving him enough leverage to lean up, grab Phil's shirt, and yank him into a kiss.

It's slightly awkward, but worth it, for all that Clint's boots are probably scuffing the black leather: his tongue is wet and warm against Phil's, and he's snuck an arm around the back of Phil's neck. Phil wraps an arm around his torso to steady him, and Clint hums happily and presses closer to him, shifts till he's sitting across Phil's lap. 

They kiss for a long time. Phil is hard, and the solid weight and heat of Clint's body pressed tight against him isn't helping matters, but for the moment he's content just to touch him, stroke his palms over his warm skin, drag his fingers through his soft hair. Clint keeps making soft, satisfied noises as he fucks Phil's mouth with his tongue. Clint bumps into the steering wheel but doesn't set off the horn, and then laughs, tucking his head against Phil's neck. "Lemme suck you off?"

Phil chuckles, and nuzzles at Clint's forehead. "If you want."

Clint nips his ear. "If _I_ want?" He snorts, and twists effortlessly out of Phil's grasp, bracing his knees on the passenger seat and ducking his head. "If I _want_ , he says." Phil can hear the smirk in his voice. "Well, 's long as you don't _mind_ …" he drawls.

Phil cards his fingers through Clint's hair and runs a hand down Clint's spine. Clint's fingers are quick and practiced and then his mouth is there, smooth and wet, sliding down Phil's cock with slick abandon. Clint swallows him down practically all the way and Phil chokes a little, letting his head fall back against the cool black leather of his seat. Clint gives a loud, slurping suck, sliding his mouth up as he does, till his lips are barely parted over the head. His tongue swirls over it, and Phil closes his eyes. Clint makes a quick, muffled sound that might be a laugh, and moans when Phil starts stroking his hair again. His lips slide their way down again, slow and steady, and Phil hears himself groan. 

That seems to spark something in Clint: he starts to bob his head in earnest, sliding his lips up and down along Phil's shaft, grabbing at Phil's knee for balance and speeding up his rhythm. It's wet and sloppy and amazing, and Phil slips a hand under Clint's shirt, strokes his palm along Clint's back, his fingers through Clint's hair, desperate to touch as much of him as possible. Clint swirls his tongue and retreats, slows down for a moment, and Phil struggles to keep still, forces himself not to thrust deep into Clint's throat. He reaches down to grab Clint's ass instead. Clint moans again, increasing suction beyond what should be humanly possible, and Phil comes with a jolt.

Gasps for air as Clint swallows, and hauls him up the moment he can. Kisses him, pulls him close: Clint tastes amazing, like come, like himself, and he's almost boneless in Phil's arms, smiling against his lips, and handsy as hell, running his fingers over Phil's shoulders and down along his chest. "Um. Phil?" he murmurs, pulling back for a second, then diving back, groaning into Phil's mouth, pressing him back into the carseat with the weight of his body. Eventually, he tries again: " _Phil_ …"

"Mm?" Phil manages, not quite up to words yet, not with Clint cradling his head and dropping quick, desperate, possibly intentionally distracting kisses to his face.

"Think I mighta…got jizz on the…" his mouth quirks. "On the upholstery." 

Phil glances over; he has indeed. He glances back, where Clint is doing a very bad job of trying to look guilty. "You think?"

Clint bats his eyes and pouts his kiss-swollen lips. It's more than a little ridiculous. "Oops?"

"Oops?" Phil says, and presses his forehead to Clint's. "It's like you're just _dying_ to get me in trouble here, Barton."

Clint gives him a slightly bemused look. "Oh yeah?" 

"I mean, my dad's gonna be pretty pissed," Phil says, seriously, and Clint blinks at him, confused, before laughing and rolling his eyes.

"You're such a dork, Phil." 

Phil grins. "Yeah, yeah." 

“Well,” Clint says, serious again, as he swings off of Phil’s lap and back to his seat. He tucks himself back in, slides up his zipper. “I guess we better get you home before curfew, then, Coulson. Wouldn’t want your daddy to think I’m a…” he winks as reaches over to ease Phil’s fly up, slower than he needs to, and lets his fingers linger against Phil’s hip. “Bad influence or somethin’.”

“Or something, Barton,” he says, still smiling, and starts the car.

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally going to title this after New York's state motto ("Excelsior", fwiw), having assumed that "Land of Enchantment" was New Mexico's, [but it's not](http://www.netstate.com/states/mottoes/nm_motto.htm). And I was just too delighted to find out what New Mexico's state motto actually is/means, so. Here we are.


End file.
